Page 2 of Call Me Baby 2: Side B

Somethin’s deeply wrong with that motherfucker. Real deviant shit. ‘Cause you gotta be real sick to make a girl feel like she’s the only one in the world, say shit like ‘you’re sexy’ while your tongue’s in her, then bounce.

And Marianna? She knows she ain’t pretty. Ain’t had a guy look at her without wincin’ since sophomore year.

Now she thinks there’s hope. More guys out there just like him. And that fucker—Andrew Harding? He knew exactly what he was doin’. He knew what that hook-up would’ve meant to her. He knew she’d cling to it, and he gave it to her anyway.

Which makes him worse than the usual scumbags.

He ain’t a player. He’s a psychopath.

So yeah, I wanted him to look me in the eye and admit he’s a creep. A sadist lowlife with a Jesus complex who gets off on makin’ ugly girls feel special, only to rip it away.

I wanted him to admit he knew exactly what he was doin’.

And admit he fuckin’ liked it.

Then a few weeks later, I catch him outside Brino’s.

It wasn’t planned. I’m not that theatrical. Was on my way home from grabbin’ a slice when I saw him through the window. He had his elbows on the bar, that cocky-ass smirk, and some chick with big-ass hoops in his ear.

So I stood there in the alley by the trash, waitin’.

Ten, twelve minutes go by, an’ he comes out solo—light jacket, hood down, keys jinglin’ in his hand. Didn’t check his surroundings, didn’t even look up—one of them boys who never had to.

I stepped out. ‘Yo.’

He clocked me right away, slowed up, and I swear to God—he gave me that dumb civil nod like we was passin’ each other on JFK, as if he ain’t played my sister.

‘You fucked her up, bro.’

He had the audacity to look confused—brows all pinched, diggin’ through his memory to figure out which girl I'm talkin' about. Which girl. Can you imagine thinkin’, huh, I wonder which sad bitch I broke this week?

‘You got her waitin’ on your ass, man. For weeks. Got her hopes up an’ shit.’

That’s when it hit him.

Right there behind his eyes.

You ever see regret knock the wind outta someone? It was that.

So I swung. One clean punch straight to the stomach, and I felt that shit ring up my arm. Fucker was built like a steel beam—abs like bricks.

He doubled over, hands on knees, coughin’.

And I didn’t wanna stop. I got right up on him, grabbed the collar of his jacket. ‘A fuckin’ hour?’ I said, shovin’ him up against brick. ‘You did that to her, for what? Huh? You sick piece of shit.’

He stared past me, breathin’ hard through his nose to stay calm, actin’ like I was the one losin’ it.

‘The fuck’s wrong with you?’ I shoved him again. ‘You some kind of addict? That it? Addicted to eatin’ pussy?’ I cracked him across his jaw to feel somethin’ give.

His head whipped left, blood trailin’ off his lip. He didn’t wipe it, lettin' it drip with a half-dead smile hangin’ there.

‘You got off on it, didn’t you? You sick skinny-ass motherfucker.’ My spit was flyin’ in his face, an’ he didn’t flinch once.

‘Goin’ down gets you bustin’ in your jeans? That why you eat any pussy with a pulse?’ I shook my head. ‘Probably wouldn’t need a pulse, huh? You sick fuck.’

I hated him more for not fightin’ back, for makin’ it feel like I was beatin’ a corpse. I spit on his Nikes, then shoved him so hard he bounced off the bricks.

He stumbled back, rightin’ himself.